IT WAS IN TENTS
Our annoyingly cheerful ultrarunner Damian Hall has been making friends in the Sahara Desert
© SUSIE CHAN / DAMIAN HALL
I’m writing this in a Heathrow cafe, having just arrived back from Morocco and a week dashing about in the Sahara Desert, at the Marathon des Sables (MdS).
While camel-spider and scorpion dodging, and sliding down sand dunes (when I was meant to be going up them), was a complete blast, if a little toasty at times, it wasn’t the running experience per se that has given me the most immediately powerful memories. Rather, what happened under a large piece of black, dust-ridden cloth.
MdS is a mostly self-sufficient race. You carry all the kit (hardly any) and food (quite a lot) you need for a week of running. And all you’re given is water and a large opensided tent, to share with seven strangers. It sounds like an idea for another of those appalling reality TV shows: chuck eight strangers into a tent, in a searingly hot desert, limit their food and water, with no washing or cooking facilities and make them run to exhaustion each day, so they’re smelly, hungry and grumpy. Oh, and make them poo in bags. Stand back and see what happens…
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